


Staking a Claim

by fuzipenguin



Series: Sideswipe Watches Too Much Porn [5]
Category: Transformers Generation One
Genre: Dubious Consent, M/M, Multi, Oral Sex, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Public Claiming, Public Sex, Sticky Sex, Twincest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-06
Updated: 2014-03-06
Packaged: 2018-01-14 17:20:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1274707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuzipenguin/pseuds/fuzipenguin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>No one believes them when they tell mechs they're in a relationship with Ratchet. Well, that's about to change.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Staking a Claim

**Author's Note:**

> From renegadewriter8's kink request on the Wrench of Inspiration #5 post at the livejournal community twins_x_ratch.

               

**Five Days**

               The Autobots had long ago learned the variety of negative cues of the battlefield:

               When Prowl’s words became clipped and tight as he gave orders over comms, mechs knew that the battle was going badly.

               When Ratchet’s volume got softer instead of louder, it was because all his attention was devoted to yanking the mech he was working on out of Death’s grasp.

               And when the twins tensed and their grins faded, slag was about to hit the proverbial fan.

               So when Sideswipe abruptly shot upright from a slouch, vibrating with battle readiness, everyone near him responded in kind. Ironhide’s cannons whined from their sudden ramp-up, Bluestreak’s quivering doorwings arched high in alarm, and Smokescreen yanked a blaster from subspace. Their heads swiveled as they surveyed the room, trying to pinpoint the threat.

               Except they couldn’t find one.

               Everything seemed normal; there were no alarms blaring and no calls over the shipwide communications line. None of the other mechs in the rec room were agitated, although a few of the minibots were giving their table an odd glance.

               “Sideswipe? What’s wrong?” Bluestreak ventured, vibrating almost as much as the frontliner.

               “Mechs need to learn to keep their hands to themselves,” Sideswipe muttered, optics focused on a point over Ironhide’s shoulder.

               His companions took another look around the room, following Sideswipe’s stare. There was nothing alarming in Sideswipe’s line of sight: Ratchet was briskly striding away from Blaster, the communications officer lowering his hand after a goodbye wave at the medic. Just behind Blaster, Skyfire and Perceptor occupied a table, each intently focused on the pile of datapads in front of them.

              “Sides? What are you talking about?” Smokescreen asked, replacing the blaster and relaxing. He subtly snuck a glance at the drooping cards in the red twin’s hand. “Something wrong with Sunstreaker?”

              “With Sunny?” Sideswipe asked, turning and looking at Smokescreen with surprised faceplates.

              “Nothing’s wrong with Sunny. No, Ratchet had to practically pry Blaster off himself just now,” he said, gesturing across the room, frown marring his normally pleasant features.

              “What’s it to you?” Ironhide asked. He was irritably rolling his shoulders as his cannons powered down, obviously still a little on edge.

              Sideswipe looked taken back for a moment. “Uh. Are you serious? I know Ratch told you about us.”

              “Told me what? Oh, about the three of ya?” Ironhide snorted. “That prank’s gettin’ kind of old, Sides. It’s been days now.”

              “It’s not…” Sideswipe protested.

              “I still don’t know how you convinced Ratchet to take part in it,” Smokescreen said, shaking his head. “And will you take a card? It’s your turn, and your hand is slag.”

              Sideswipe jerked his cards closer to his chest, a wary expression taking the place of his earnest one. “That’s what you think!” he blustered.

              “Yeah,” Smokescreen said with a smug grin. “That’s what I think. Now will you go, already?”

              “Fine, fine,” Sideswipe retorted. “We’ll just see whose hand is slag.” With one last look at Ratchet, now retreating from the rec room with an energon cube in hand, Sideswipe reached forward and drew another card from the center stack.

              Sideswipe only won two out of the following seven games they played that night; not a bad showing for anyone else, but certainly subpar for the frontliner.

              Too bad no one really took much note of cues _off_ the battlefield.

\--

**Five Months**

              A loud ‘clang’ echoed in the MedBay, and everyone present looked on in amusement as Ratchet lowered his wrench, glaring at Sideswipe.

              “How many times have I told you?!” the medic bellowed.

              Sideswipe ruefully rubbed the dent in the side of his helm as Sunstreaker stood, arms crossed over his chassis, next to his twins’ exam table.

              “You know, I think I’ve lost count by now,” Sideswipe admitted. Sunstreaker snorted and rolled his optics at the reply.

              The wrench rose back into the air, and Sideswipe jumped off the table, hands held up in defense.

              “I know, I know! I promise to be more careful next time,” Sideswipe said soothingly.

              “You say that every time,” Ratchet grumbled. “Both of you.”

              “Yeah, well, the ‘Cons don’t play nice,” Sunstreaker interjected.

              Ratchet grunted, throwing the wrench onto a nearby table. “Yeah, I know. Just get out of here, I have work to do. And I better not see you back in here anytime soon!” he threatened, jabbing a finger through the air in their general direction.

              Sideswipe darted forward and planted a kiss on Ratchet’s cheek, grinning and ducking the resulting angry swipe.

              “Thanks, babe. We’ll just have to see you somewhere else then… Tonight? Our room?” Sideswipe suggested with a leer.

              Subvocally growling, Ratchet threw up his hands and turned his back on the twins. He began striding across the room to Ironhide, the weapons specialist nervously fidgeting as the irate medic approached.

              A chuckle slowed the twins’ departure from the med bay. “You two will never stop needlin’ him, will ya? Ya know, one day he really will turn ya into toasters,” Jazz said, visor twinkling merrily.

              The saboteur grinned at them as he nonchalantly lounged on the berth closest to the exit. Despite the ripped armor and torn lines of his left arm, Jazz appeared pretty comfortable as he waited his turn.

              “Naw. He loves us; said so himself,” Sideswipe announced, patting Jazz on his good shoulder as they walked past.

              “Loves ya as target practice!”

              Sideswipe paused, looking over his shoulder at the third in command. “You know we’ve been seeing each other for half an Earth year, right?” he asked, orbital ridges furrowed.

              Jazz burst out laughing, drawing the attention of everyone in the MedBay. Sunstreaker stepped up beside his brother, optics narrowed as they stared at Jazz’s chortling frame.

              “You… seeing…. year….hah!” Jazz finally managed to get out between the giggles. Sideswipe grabbed Sunstreaker’s arm, halting his twin’s menacing step forward. “Yea, right! He would have dismantled you by now! Oh, Sides… whew… that’s a good one!”

              “It’s not…” Sideswipe began, but then Ratchet bellowed again from across the room.

              “Out! Did I not say out!?” Ratchet yelled, banishing a long piece of pipe as he began striding across the bay floor.

              Sideswipe yelped and he Sunstreaker broke for the door, nearly bowling aside Bumblebee as he entered.

\--

**Ten Months**

              “So… would you care to accompany me back to my room for the evening?”

              Sunstreaker lowered the cube that had been halfway to his lipplates and stared at Tracks.

              “.... accompany... you?” Sunstreaker finally managed.

              Tracks reared back in surprise. “Of course. Is that not why you’ve been speaking with me this evening? To work up to such a request? Really, Sunstreaker, there’s no need. You can be blunt with me; considering our history, I am willing to enter another brief dalliance.”

              The cube slammed to the top of the table, making Tracks jump.

              “No. I won’t be going with you to your room. I’m _taken_ , you aft. And I’m not going to jeopardize that for _you_ ,” Sunstreaker snapped.

              “Frag, can’t a mech keep his promises and have a normal conversation with other mechs?” Sunstreaker said, grumbling t to himself.

              “Well! I apologize! But you’re not exactly known for ‘normal’ conversation! And I wasn’t aware that you and Sideswipe were practicing exclusivity,” Tracks huffed. “If you excuse me, I’ll take my offer elsewhere.”

              Tracks abruptly pushed himself to his feet and strode away.

              “Me and…” Sunstreaker stared after Tracks’ retreating back, jaw hung open. “Does no one listen around here?” Sunstreaker asked, raising the volume of his voice. A few mechs looked in his direction.

              “To you? We try not to,” Gears sneered. Quietly. From a nice safe distance across the rec room.

              “We’re with Ratchet. Get it through your thick helms,” Sunstreaker snarled. He tossed back the contents of his cube and took to his feet, stomping out of the rec room as loudly as possible.

              “The twins and _Ratchet_?” Cliffjumper scoffed to Gears as soon as the frontliner disappeared around the doorframe. “Yeah, right. They’d kill each other after five minutes together.”

\--

**One Year**

              “Do you get the idea that no one believes Ratchet’s with us?” Sideswipe murmured.

              Sunstreaker looked up from his cube and followed Sideswipe’s gaze. Engine snarling, Sunstreaker shifted in place as he saw Ironhide throw his arm over Ratchet’s shoulder, leaning companionably against the medic.

              “He’s _ours_ ,” Sunstreaker growled. At the next table over, Bluestreak startled at the angry rumble audible even over the sound of chattering mechs and pounding music. He glanced warily at their table and then quickly turned back to his conversation with Hound when Sunstreaker glared at the gunner.

              “Well, yeah. _I_ know that. _You_ know that. And _Ratchet_ certainly knows that,” Sideswipe replied, grinning wolfishly. “But it’s like no one else does. And it’s not like we haven’t told mechs; but they all think it’s a prank. Maybe we should announce it over comms.”

               “We shouldn’t need to,” Sunstreaker replied, optics fixated on Ratchet’s form.

               “Mm. Maybe…we should show them,” Sideswipe said slowly, chin propped on his hand as he watched Ratchet extract himself from Ironhide’s grip.

               The medic walked across the rec room, seemingly intent on the energon dispenser. He was waylaid just a few steps from it by an overcharged Blaster; the communications officer draped himself over Ratchet from behind, prompting both brothers to produce near identical angry growls.

               “Yup,” Sideswipe said decisively, placing his hands on the table edge and pushing himself to his feet. “I think that’s the plan.”

               “Ok. Wait… what?” Sunstreaker asked, so focused on Ratchet’s maneuvering out of Blaster’s embrace that he only noticed Sideswipe’s absence when he was several feet away.

                _What are you doing?_ Sunstreaker asked his brother as Sideswipe began walking across the room. Sunstreaker’s optics trailed down his brother’s back to alight upon his lightly swaying hips as Sideswipe stalked their mate.

                _Putting on a little show. You in?_

 _Always,_ Sunstreaker replied, standing and stretching. He moved more slowly than his brother, allowing Sideswipe to meet up with Ratchet first.

                “Hey, baby, fancy meeting you here,” Sideswipe purred, sidling up behind Ratchet as the medic held his cube beneath the energon dispenser.

                Ratchet looked over his shoulder, frowning a little. “I’m not staying long,” he immediately stated, turning his attention back to his cube. “Just grabbing a cube and then heading back to fill out reports.”

                “Reports?!” Sideswipe protested. He stepped closer, peering down at the dispenser and Ratchet’s selection. “Mid grade! Soooo boring. Don’t you want to stay, have a little high grade, and get groped some more?”

                “Get groped… what are you…?” Ratchet said, trailing off as he turned more fully and startled at Sideswipe’s closeness.

                “You’re too sexy for your own good, Ratch,” Sideswipe murmured, placing a hand on the medic’s lower back. “Mechs can’t keep their hands off you.”

                Ratchet’s optics nervously darted over to briefly alight on Blaster. He and Jazz were at the far end of the room, fingers jabbing at the music playlist screen and companionably arguing with one another.

                “Mechs get handsy when the high grade starts flowing, Sides. Pit, I don’t know how many times I’ve had to peel _you_ off me when you’ve had too much to drink,” Ratchet retorted.

                “But they’re _his_ hands,” Sunstreaker remarked, finishing making his way through the crowd to them. “ _His_ are allowed. _Mine_ are allowed. Theirs…” he said, haughty gaze raking across the throng of mechs in the rec room, “… _aren’t_.”

                Sunstreaker’s optics were dark and intent as they met Ratchet’s after dismissing the crowd.

                “It’s not like I’m inviting them!” Ratchet hotly protested, drawing himself up with indignation.

                Sideswipe’s hand soothingly stroked Ratchet’s lower back and then landed on his side as Ratchet turned all the way around to face both of them.

                “We know you’re not. We’ve watched you push them away again and again. But they keep coming back; almost as if they don’t know who you belong to,” Sideswipe said.

                Ratchet’s optics narrowed, darting from one twin to the other. “I don’t _belong_ to you,” he said icily. “We’re in a relationship, yes, but…”

                “But no one knows that,” Sunstreaker interrupted, shaking his head. He took a step closer, admiring gaze slowly traveling down Ratchet’s frame from the top of his chevron to the tips of his feet and back up. “And I think it’s time they did.”

                “Mechs know,” Ratchet protested, shifting as if he were about to move away. Sideswipe’s hand tightened on his hip, anchoring him in place. “What are you two planning? What are you…umph!”

                So focused on Sunstreaker’s slow and measured approach, Ratchet missed Sideswipe’s other hand coming up. It grasped Ratchet’s chin and directed his face towards Sideswipe’s, lipplates meeting the warrior’s in a heated kiss.

                Ratchet murmured a muffled protest, hand coming up to ineffectually bat at Sideswipe’s chest. Moments later, however, his hand spasmed and came to rest along the shiny, red armor, fingers curling under to clutch at seams.

                Sunstreaker rumbled approvingly, pressing against Ratchet’s front. He slid his hands up Ratchet’s chassis, slipping under plating to tweak and pull at wires and sensor clusters. He gently grasped Ratchet along the sides of his neck and pulled, Ratchet’s lips disengaging from Sideswipe’s with a tiny, disappointed moan from the medic.

                Sideswipe exchanged a smug glance with his twin before Sunstreaker dipped his head, claiming Ratchet’s mouth next.

                Two pairs of hands stroked Ratchet’s form, caressing the edges of plating and what structures they could reach beneath. As Sunstreaker continued to plunder the depths of Ratchet’s mouth, Sideswipe lifted Ratchet’s closest arm. Getting a firm grip on the wrist, Sideswipe bent his head and attacked each of Ratchet’s fingers one by one, sucking on the sensor-laden tips and using his glossa to stroke each joint.

                Ratchet shuddered, moaning unabashedly as Sunstreaker bent his head to lavish attention on the sensitive cables of Ratchet’s neck. The twins had long ago discovered that Ratchet’s hands and neck were spots guaranteed to quickly rev the medic up into a writhing, pleading bundle of metal, and tonight was no exception.

                They ruthlessly continued their attack, Sunstreaker slipping a hand between Ratchet’s thighs as the medic began to sag from the pleasure. Ratchet groaned when Sunstreaker’s fingers stroked the warm, slippery edges of the panel covering his valve.

                _They watching?_ Sunstreaker asked, his back to the room.

                Sideswipe twisted, raising his optics as he continued to suckle the end of Ratchet’s index finger. _Some,_ he reported, observing the expressions of astonishment and shock on the faceplates of those mechs sitting closest to them.

                _I want them_ all _to see,_ Sunstreaker stated.

 _Well, how about this then?_ Sideswipe asked and pushed an image over their bond.

                Sunstreaker sent back a tangled pulse of lust and amusement. _That works for me._

Sideswipe removed his lips from Ratchet’s digit with a wet popping sound and dropped Ratchet’s arm. The medic immediately raised it to clutch at Sunstreaker’s waist, trying to pull him closer.

                Sideswipe scanned the area of the room that they were in, his optics brightening as they finally alighted on what he was looking for. Smirking at the wide-opticked table of minibots, he approached and gestured to one of the unoccupied chairs.

               “You using this?” he asked.

                “Feel free,” Bumblebee said faintly. A loud moan made Bumblebee duck his head as his cooling fans kicked on.

                Grin only getting bigger, Sideswipe sloppily saluted. “Keep watchin’ boys, show’s just begun.”

                He grabbed the chair by its back and hefted it, carrying it back to his twin and Ratchet. He set it down, tapping his twin on the shoulder and taking the opportunity to ghost a hand of Ratchet’s aft. Sunstreaker lifted his head from Ratchet’s neck, optics slanting to the side.

                He pulled away from Ratchet, Sideswipe smoothly switching places with him and occupying Ratchet’s mouth with his own before the medic could even think to protest. As Sunstreaker settled himself in the chair, Sideswipe smoothly nudged Ratchet backwards until he was directly between his twin’s legs. Then he gave the medic’s chest a gentle shove.

                Arms windwiling, Ratchet stumbled and fell backwards, landing squarely on Sunstreaker’s lap.

                Optics wide in surprise, Ratchet emerged a little from his pleasure-induced haze. When he saw nearly a third of the room looking back at him, Ratchet began to struggle to stand.

                “Now, wait a minute,” he hissed. “Half of the Autobot army is in this room! Let go!” he snapped, looking over his shoulder at Sunstreaker who had a firm grip on the medic’s hips. Ratchet wasn’t a small mech. But with systems sluggish from rising charge and unable to get good purchase on the floor, the medic wasn’t really going anywhere.

                “Oh, no. We’re not done with you yet,” Sideswipe purred, stepping between Ratchet’s spread thighs. He leaned over and cupped Ratchet’s cheek, thumb gently stroking the surface.

                “This is enough… you don’t need to… oh, slag!” Ratchet exclaimed as Sunstreaker’s spike cover retracted, pressurized spike slipping free to nudge along Ratchet’s aft.

                “Oh, yes we do. And we’re not leaving here until every mech in this room sees you coming apart under our hands,” Sideswipe said, tone promising Very Bad Things.

                Sideswipe’s head cocked to the side as he considered Ratchet’s sprawled form. “Well… maybe more than just our hands,” he said with a wicked smile as he dropped to his knees.

                “Oh, Primus,” Ratchet murmured, trying one last time to squirm off Sunstreaker’s lap. The medic stilled, however, when Sideswipe’s hands clamped down warningly on Ratchet’s thighs.

                Sunstreaker resumed his nibbling at Ratchet’s neck and throat, following each nip with a thorough laving of the area with his glossa. Meanwhile, Sideswipe bent his head and nuzzled the apex of Ratchet’s thighs, peppering his pelvis with moist kisses.

                It didn’t take long for Ratchet to shutter his optics, arching his neck to the side to allow Sunstreaker better access. Sunstreaker’s engine revved in anticipation as Ratchet shifted restlessly on Sunstreaker’s lap.

                After a few more moments of Sideswipe licking and nibbling at Ratchet’s interface covers, both slid aside, Ratchet’s spike peeping out of its sheath. Sideswipe immediately latched on to the tip, suckling until it emerged enough for Sideswipe to wrap a hand around it and stroke. Ratchet’s hips twitched, beginning a minute rocking motion.

                Sideswipe grinned around his mouthful, looking up to meet his brother’s optics. Sunstreaker was watching avidly, hands continuing to pet Ratchet’s sides and chest. His twin pushed impatience along their link.

                “Keep your plating on,” Sideswipe murmured, sliding his lips off Ratchet’s spike despite the medic’s unhappy whine. Continuing to stroke the cord with one hand, he reached further back between Ratchet’s thighs with his other. Questing fingers found slick, heated metal, and Ratchet’s voice cried out wordlessly as two of Sideswipe’s digits slid easily into Ratchet’s ready valve.

                “Look at this! I think you _like_ being on display,” Sideswipe said with a smirk. “I think you love them watching you, seeing how turned on we make you. Frag, you’re practically _pouring_ lubricant. Naughty, Ratch. Very naughty,” he said, leaning forward and sinking his denta into the nearest bit of thigh plating as a third finger slid alongside the first two.

                Ratchet jerked at the two sensations, hand flying out to grasp one of Sideswipe’s audio horns and give it a desperate squeeze. Sideswipe purred and leaned his helm into the grip, glossa flicking out to tease the head of Ratchet’s now fully pressurized length.

                “Sunny’s gonna frag you now,” Sideswipe informed Ratchet, withdrawing his fingers from the medic’s clenching valve. Sunstreaker gripped Ratchet by the hips and shifted him higher up on Sunstreaker’s lap, even as Ratchet moaned at the loss of Sideswipe’s fingers.

                “He’s gonna take you here, here in front of everyone,” Sideswipe continued. He gripped his brother’s spike, using lubricant-drenched fingers to stroke it. Not that Sunstreaker needed it; his spike was already wet with dribbles of leaked transfluid.

                “Nnnngh,” Ratchet groaned, optic shutters opening a fraction. “Sides…”

                Sideswipe positioned Sunstreaker’s spike at the entrance to Ratchet’s valve, teasingly rubbing the spike tip against the spasming valve rim.

                “Sideswipe!” Sunstreaker snapped, trying to thrust upwards. He was stopped by the tightening of Sideswipe’s hand.

                “Na uh,” Sideswipe explained in the face of Sunstreaker’s glare. “I want Ratchet to see everyone looking back at him. Wanting him, lusting over him… but unable to touch. Because you’re _ours_ ,” he growled, looking up at Ratchet’s faceplates. “Open your optics, Ratchet.”

                After a moment, Ratchet’s helm rose, and his optics dazedly looked out into the room. He almost immediately ducked his head after, squirming a little. Sunstreaker groaned softly as the motion pushed the head of his spike beyond the entrance of Ratchet’s valve.

                The medic abruptly stilled, optics darting to Sideswipe’s faceplates and then back over the crowd. There was a long, tense moment before Ratchet looked back down at Sideswipe and gave a tiny nod.

                “Do it,” Ratchet rasped.

                Sideswipe’s faceplates lit up in a triumphant smile, and his hand dropped from his brother’s spike. In the next moment, Sunstreaker snapped his hips up, impaling Ratchet with one smooth push. Ratchet threw his head back with a hiss, hands clamping down on Sunstreaker’s arms.

                Sunstreaker started out slow, with long, deep strokes that made Ratchet’s back arch every time Sunstreaker bottomed out. Sideswipe leaned back on his heels for a moment, openly appreciating the view.

                Behind him, Sideswipe could hear the rising murmur of the crowd, and he glanced over his shoulder to see the whole room avidly watching. Some had shocked expressions on their faceplates, others appreciative. A few mechs were becoming emboldened, turning to long-time partners or prospective berth mates with roaming hands and lust in their optics.

                Smug grin on his faceplates, Sideswipe turned his gaze back to his mates. Ratchet was now meeting every one of Sunstreaker’s thrusts, head flung back on Sunstreaker’s shoulder and mouth slack as his hips worked over Sunstreaker’s lap. Ratchet’s spike rose proudly from the apex of his thighs, glistening and straining.

                Sideswipe leaned forward, lightly stroking Ratchet’s knees. Bending his head, Sideswipe placed open-mouth kisses along each transformation seam of Ratchet’s inner thighs. Even as he did, Sideswipe’s optics were glued to the hard length inches from his faceplates.

                Suddenly, Sideswipe heard several raised voices from behind him. One of them sounded like a very indignant Prowl, and Sideswipe buried his grin against Ratchet’s interface array. Ratchet groaned as Sideswipe’s nasal ridge rubbed against the base of Ratchet’s spike. The medic’s hand flailed in the air for several moments before finally finding Sideswipe’s helm and tugging him closer to Ratchet’s lonely spike.

                “Whatcha want, Ratch?” Sideswipe murmured, venting warm air over the leaking tip. “Want me to suck you off? Pull that overload outta you until you make a mess on my face?”

                Sunstreaker chuckled darkly, directing the sounds into Ratchet’s audio, as the medic writhed. “Remember that time we tied Sides up and overloaded all over him? The way the transfluid dripped down his thighs, over his spike? I’m gonna paint that one day. A miniature, so you can keep it in your desk and pull it out when you’re lonely.”

                Ratchet moaned in response, shuddering. “More!” he demanded, blindly mouthing at the side of Sunstreaker’s neck.

                “Oh, we’ll give you more,” Sunstreaker promised, sharing a heated glance with his twin.

                Sideswipe grasped the outside of Ratchet’s knees and pushed them together, hands sliding down to cup Ratchet’s ankles and guide the medic’s legs to rest atop Sideswipe’s shoulders. He slipped his hands beneath the back of Ratchet’s upper thighs at the same time that Sunstreaker grabbed Ratchet’s hips and pushed him up to hover an inch or so over Sunstreaker’s lap. Ratchet made a garbled protest, arms flailing until they gripped the armrests of the chair, fingers digging in and denting the metal.

                Ratchet’s spike was now at the perfect height. Sideswipe ducked his head to engulf the straining cord; seconds after, Sunstreaker snapped his hips upwards in the beginnings of a brutally fast pace, one sure to leave readily visible paint transfers. Held immobile and unable to do anything but take the assault, Ratchet wailed a spiraling cry, vocalizer fritzing out near Starscream volumes.

                _Oh,_ Primus… _he’s so slaggin’ hot,_ Sideswipe said, moaning around his mouthful. He took an image capture of Ratchet’s pleasure-wrecked expression and sent it to his brother.

                _And all ours,_ Sunstreaker snarled, optics belligerently locked on the Rec Room’s other occupants.

                _He’s close,_ Sideswipe warned, feeling the spike in his mouth swell even more. _You?_

 _Almost,_ Sunstreaker replied, faintly. Sideswipe sucked harder at the tip of Ratchet’s spike, humming, and Sunstreaker pulled Ratchet into the next few thrusts, the rub of metal sliding against metal chiming softly in Sideswipe’s audials.

                Ratchet didn’t last long after that. He stiffened with a shout, entire frame shuddering and spike twitching violently before flooding Sideswipe’s mouth with transfluid. When the flow slowed and then finally stopped, Sideswipe slid his lipplates slid off Ratchet’s spike, blowing softly at the tip. Ratchet shivered, head lolling and his back sagging to meet Sunstreaker’s chest.

                Sunstreaker’s optics were tightly shuttered in concentration, mindlessly chasing after his own overload. Sideswipe reached out across their bond and gave Sunstreaker the equivalent of a sharp poke. Sunstreaker’s optics flew open, and he wordlessly growled in irritation.

                Sideswipe met Sunstreaker’s glare with a wink, glossa sliding out to lick at the trail of transfluid trickling from one corner of his mouth. Sunstreaker groaned, his optics burning now with lust as he watched Sideswipe tilt his head back and open his mouth, showing off the pool of transfluid still sitting in the back of his intake.

                Arms shaking, Sunstreaker dropped Ratchet the rest of the way down onto Sunstreaker’s lap, provoking a grunt from the medic. As Sideswipe made a show of swallowing, Sunstreaker thrust into Ratchet’s valve with several short, stabbing motions and then overloaded, letting out a shuddering gasp. He dropped his forehelm to Ratchet’s shoulder, clutching the medic to him as his hips slowly circled against Ratchet’s aft.

                Sideswipe lifted Ratchet’s limp legs off his shoulders and draped them drape over Sunstreaker’s thighs. He moved his weight to his heels and then stood, stretching out the tension in his neck cables as his optics surveyed the shivering pile of limbs that were his mates.

                He nodded to himself in satisfaction and then stepped forward, straddling Ratchet’s closest thigh. Sideswipe’s interface cover slid to the side with a barely audible ‘click’, and a sigh of relief emerged from between Sideswipe’s lips.

                Letting out a moan, Sideswipe slid a hand down over his spike, shuddering at the long-awaited sensation. He closed his optics for one moment and when he opened them, Ratchet’s hand was rising through the air. Sideswipe eagerly shuffled closer, almost shoving his spike into the medic’s grip.

                “Ours,” Sideswipe moaned as met Ratchet’s still hazy optics. “All ours.”

                Still recovering from the strut-shaking overload, Ratchet’s fingers were only able to lightly stroke Sideswipe’s spike, more of a tease than anything. Sideswipe wrapped his fingers around Ratchet’s and tightened them, his hips surging forward as he thrust into their combined grip.

                It didn’t take much longer for Sideswipe to begin shaking, bent over and supporting himself with a hand on Ratchet’s shoulder as overload crept up on him.

                And then Ratchet said, “Yes. Yours.”

It was murmured, too quiet for any of the audience to hear; it was meant for them and them alone, and Sideswipe fell over the edge with the echo of it in his audials.

                The rhythm of his hand stuttered, and Sideswipe’s spike erupted, transfluid flying from the tip to land on Ratchet’s abdomen and chest in long stripes. His fingers tightened even further over Ratchet’s, the brutally tight grip pulling out every last drop of transfluid until Sideswipe sagged in place, knees wobbly.

                Sideswipe ventilated rapidly for several moments before straightening, meeting his twin’s optics with a smile. Interfacing fluids dripping from his face, fingers, and thighs, Sideswipe turned to face the rest of the room and planted himself firmly between Ratchet’s spread legs, blocking him from further view.

                “Thank you all for joining us in that one night only performance!” he announced. “There _will_ be an encore; in fact, there’s going to be several. _Privately_. For as long as Ratchet will have us,” Sideswipe continued, voice turning steely as he let his gaze travel around the room.

                “Are there any questions?”        

               

 ~ End

               

               


End file.
